A Man In The Making
by If Only I Were A Slinky
Summary: This is my first time getting drunk and I guess I do stupid things while under the influence. Flirting with Tallahassee is one of them. Columbus/Tallahassee.


Title: A Man In The Making

Summary: This is my first time getting drunk and I guess that I do stupid things while under the influence. Flirting with Tallahassee is one of them. Columbus/Tallahassee.

Disclaimer: I do not own Zombieland.

IIIII

We'd parked the Hummer outside this very nice two story abode. The girls are slumbering upstairs peacefully while Tallahassee and I have the routine job of taking first shift. In about four hours we go wake up Wichita and Little Rock and they take the next shift, and then we eat breakfast. I'm looking forward to a nice, warm bed to sleep in instead of reclined in the front seat of the Hummer. Or having to sleep in the backseat sitting up straight, which is completely uncomfortable.

I sit on the couch, wondering if there are still nerds like me out there that would like to log onto World of Warcraft just to see if anyone's survived, and that's when Tallahassee comes into the front room holding up two shot glasses and a bottle of vodka.

"I hope you intend to try and drink two shots at the same time," I tell him. "Because you know me, I'm--"

He interrupts me, plopping down on the cushion next to me, saying, "No excuses, spit fuck. Tonight you become a man."

I like to think I'm a man. I do, in fact, have male genitalia, but since I'm not the stereotypical man that Tallahassee is--gun-toting, hollering, drinking whenever he can kind of man--I guess I'm not considered a 'man' in that respect. No matter. It's not like the rest of the world is here to make fun of my lack of masculinity anymore. It's true that I never had any friends, and that I was a loner, but it didn't mean I was invisible. I was the target of many bullies. I wonder how they would react to seeing me shooting down the undead? Shocked, most likely.

"And don't pull that 'one and done' shit on me either, ya hear me? I'm not falling for it." Florida pours vodka into each of the glasses and hands me one. I take it with reluctance. When I just sit there and look at it he says, "Swallowin' it is the most preferable way to drink vodka if that's what you're wondering."

"No. I was wondering why you're shoving alcohol down my throat."

"I'm not shovin' it down you're throat. I'm strongly suggesting that you do it, otherwise I'll be forced to call ya Petunia for the rest of our travels," says Tallahassee.

"You call me girl names all of the time," I remind him flatly.

"Sure I do. That's because you're a bitch." Tallahassee states this as though it were a scientific fact. Then he downs his shot then looks at me expectantly.

I want to pull the trick I did like on the first day I met him but he's staring me down. I don't even have the spine of one of those teacup chihuahuas; you know the type, the ones that are always shaking and look as though they're about to piss on their owners? Yeah, those ones have more guts than I do. Standing up to Tallahassee is one of the dumbest things a person can do and I'm not about to attempt it.

So I swallow the clear liquid down. It burns my throat and I squeeze my eyes tightly as I try to wrap my mind around the fact that I just took my first real drink of alcohol. I've always been afraid of it (as I am of everything). I imagine myself probably being one of those stupid drunks, like the ones that go drunk driving and then call nine-one-one on themselves. It's not as foul tasting as I would have thought it to be. Actually, I like the warmth settling in my stomach, and I smile goofily at the cowboy sitting next to me. I find myself holding out the shot glass, insinuating that I wish for more.

"Well look at you. Our little princess likes the Schnapps," he chuckles. He pours me another one and one for himself. "Bottoms up."

I look at my glass and ask, "Should we really be getting drunk when we're on watch? We can't exactly shoot zombies while intoxicated."

"I don't know about you but I am completely in control when I'm wasted. I can drive, shoot a gun, and cook the best damn meal you've ever tasted."

"I wouldn't exactly let you use a stove while drunk," I murmur. "Anyway, I'm not cut out for heavy drinking. Maybe I should leave it at one--"

He gives me a strong pat on the back making me almost spill my vodka. "This isn't the time to be all uptight. The girls are asleep, there's no zombies around, and we have a bottle of vodka. What more could a guy ask for?"

"World of Warcraft and a girlfriend." I down my second shot and then I feel woozy. I set down my glass and hold my head in my hands, trying to keep down the liquids and what I ate for dinner (mmmm refried beans). Two drinks and my body has already had enough? Wichita was right, I do have the guts of a guppy.

It takes a while for me to stop coughing. Atleast ten minutes or so. Meanwhile, the alcohol courses through my system, making me dizzy with delight.

"So you're telling me that you're straight?" questioned Florida with a snicker. He refilled my vodka glass when I was done coughing.

"Well . . . " I blink and down the next shot without a single care in the world. I feel lightheaded, and it's as though I can feel the alcohol coursing through my veins. It's a strange, awkward feeling that makes me feel all warm through my arms, legs, torso, and especially my head. "I'm not saying I'm gay or anything . . . "

"But ya do want to fuck Wichita, don't ya?"

Images pop into my mind that I quickly shake off. Literally, I shake my head to get rid of the thoughts, and Tallahassee construes this as me saying no.

"I didn't think so," He said, taking a shot. "You're attracted to women, somewhat, but the idea of fuckin' 'em doesn't appeal to ya." It was a statement, not a question.

"I don't--I don't even think about making love to anybody in a post-apocalyptic world where there's frickin' zombies trying to eat you twenty four seven. So I guess the answers no."

"Want any more?" He holds up the bottle.

"No, no," I murmur. I run my hand through my hair trying to steady myself. I know that if I stand up I'm going to keel over, and then I'd never hear the end of it. I think I'm slurring my words but I can't really tell. They sound normal enough to me. I lean back on the couch and find that that's not comfortable enough, so I try a daring move. I don't even realize I've done it before I'm actually there.

I lay my head on Tallahassee's shoulder. My hands rest on his knee.

"What the hell do ya think you're doing?" It doesn't come out as angry, just . . . weirded out, perhaps. As though he wasn't expecting it. Hell, I wasn't expecting to do that and I was the one who did it.

I want to respond to what he's saying, but somehow my brain demands that I say, "You smell good. Did you put on that cologne we found in Detroit?"

Tallahassee chuckles and he knocks away my hands. He crosses his arms and says, "You're this close to becomin' a _flat _little spit fuck."

Against all things holy I set my hands again on his knee to be more comfortable. It's not as though I'm trying to be a bother, I just want to be comfy and cozy while sitting on this couch. There aren't many comforts left in Zombieland and this feels very nice. I smile goofily and look up at him. I completely ignore the fact that he's glaring back at me.

"I never noticed how blue your eyes were before," I say.

"Okay, no more vodka for you. Ever."

"No, no. Really. Look at me. Come on, look at me!" Tallahassee refuses and I murmur happily, "You--you have pretty blue eyes."

"You're really gone, ain't ya? I shouldn't have let you had more than two shots," He chastised himself.

"I'm not _gone_," I blurt out. "I ain't going nowhere. I'm staying right here. With you."

For what it's worth he hasn't pushed me away. Yet. He seems a little uncomfortable, and he keeps glancing at the stairs as though he's worried Little Rock or Wichita might come downstairs any moment and yell, "Ah-ha! I knew they were rump rangers!" How ridiculous. Though it is kind of weird to see Tallahassee uncomfortable. He's usually so sure of himself. But I've shaken him by simply invading his boundaries. Me, on the other hand, I couldn't care less if he invaded my boundaries. In fact, I _want _him to. This strange urge to kiss him befalls me and I have to wonder if I've gone crazy.

No, not crazy.

Just drunk off my ass.

They should have a warning label on that vodka bottle: _Homosexual tendencies for the unsure hetero. Also, it works in thirty minutes or less. Have fun you horny bastard._

"Tallahassee?"

"What now?"

He turns to look at me.

Biiig mistake.

I let my lips sink into his. I don't use any force, but I gently use my tongue to carress his lips which taste of the vodka we've been consuming for the past half hour. I'm surprised to feel him respond. I didn't think he was drunk enough to actually reply (other than throwing me off of him). Instead I get a roaring intensity from him in return. I'm still as careful as possible, unsure of myself, or what the hell I'm doing making out with Tallahassee of all people. I thought he was as straight as an arrow.

He pulls back after a couple of minutes and looks me dead in the eyes, as though searching for something. Maybe he doesn't find it because the next words out of his mouth are, "I shouldn't have let that happen. I should _not_ have let that happen."

"C'mon, I'm okay. You're okay. Right?"

"I'm fine. It's you who's so jacked up on vodka that you're not thinkin' straight. Literally."

"I'm _fine_," I say, putting my hand on his chest and gripping his shirt. "You make funny faces when you're upset. It's kinda cute."

I try to connect with his lips again, wanting the feeling of his slightly chapped lips on mine so badly that there's an ache inside of me. But he stops me by pushing me away.

"I'm going to let you go up to bed before you make a big mistake," he growls. "I can finish this shift on my own."

"Wha? Mistake? Why is--?"

"You're not gay, Columbus," Tallahassee reminds me. "You like Wichita, remember?"

"But you said earlier--"

"Forget whatever I said. I was only trying to--I don't know. Just either shut the hell up or get out of my sight." The tone in his voice tells me Tallhassee is not joking around.

"I-I'm sorry," I say. "I didn't mean to kiss you. Something went wrong with my head and I guess I lost it for a second. I don't want you mad at me. You'll make my life a living hell if you're mad at me."

"Wait, wait. Lets get one thing clear. I am not mad at you," says Tallahassee. "I'm just taking a step back before you do something you'll regret. I refuse to take advantage of someone who is drunk and doesn't even know what the hell they're doin'."

I blink as I slowly process that information. I then shake my head and reply, "But I really like you. I mean, yeah, I like Wichita, but I like you better. You can be a little immature, and you're always yelling at me, but I--I'm just . . . I don't know either." I put my head in my hands. "'M sorry, Tallahassee. I shouldn't have forced myself on you. It's just that I'm attracted to you and it rears its ugly head when I'm drunk."

"Your attraction to me isn't ugly, spit fuck. I find you rather endearin', you with all your nervousness and obsessive ways, so don't think you've forced yourself on me. No one can force anythin' on me, anyways. Do I look like a guy who can be forced?"

I look at him in his snakeskin jacket, still wearing his cowboy hat and leather boots, and I smile. "No. No, you don't."

"If you had said yes I would have had to bitch-slap ya."

There's a couple minutes of silence where Tallahassee takes one more shot of vodka. He sits back and relaxes, fingering his gun in his holster on his hip, whistling some song I don't know. I know I'm staring but I can't help it; I keep imagining his lips on mine, craving the roughness I felt when he kissed so passionately back.

"If you didn't like me kissing you," I say, "then why did you kiss back?"

"I never said I didn't like you kissin' me," he retorts sharply. "I distinctly remember saying I jus' don't want you makin' a mistake you'll regret later."

I narrow my eyes at him and take this as a challenge. I hop up on my feet, feeling a bit wobbly but I regain my balance almost immediately, and then facing him I sit on his lap, legs on either side of me. I enjoy the surprise in his face but I'm absolutely enthralled when I silence any words with a kiss so lovely that my insides turn into liquid. This time there's no holding back. I give it all that I've got and apparently this turns him right on, because I can feel a stir from inside of his pants. Tallahassee doesn't like to be dominated though, I should have guessed that from the beginning, because I'm soon on my back on the couch, with his calloused fingers rubbing against my stomach. His dirty fingernails break my skin and I gasp into his mouth, making him smirk. I can't believe we've taken it this far but I can't say that I'm disappointed. Not in the least. This is exactly what I want. I just wish I could make him believe that.

I try to tell him through my kisses that this is what I desire more than anything in the world right now. In this moment, all I want is him.

When he brings his mouth to my jawline I shiver. He leaves a trail of nibbles and kisses down my neck, suckling at my jugular vein, and he swiftly removes my shirt so he can get a good look at me. I'm rather OCD with my grooming - I don't like chest hair, and I never have, so I shave it off. Same goes for stomach hair and underarm hair. So Tallahassee runs his hands all over my smooth chest and I moan, arching slightly when he kisses my chest.

A certain body part of mine is responding, throbbing, in response to what he's doing to me, and I want to tell him to do something about it, but I'm afraid that he'll stop if I push him too far. I don't think he wants to fuck me. I think he only wants to mess around. I don't really care; he can play with me all he wants, I can finish it myself when he's satisfied.

_Dammit _he is _great _with his mouth.

To my dismay he then sits back, huffing and puffing, a hunger in his eyes that I have never seen before. He wants me, and bad, I can tell, but he's still not convinced I have feelings for him. As he said, he doesn't want to "take advantage of a drunk person."

"You--you can take advantage of me all you want, Tallahassee," I say breathily. I gasp for breath, trying to steady my breathing. "I'm yours."

"I've never heard anythin' hotter in my life," he says lowly. He dips his head and kisses my stomach, lowering his mouth down to the fringe of my jeans. I grab his shoulders and begin to hypervenolate. Is he going to go that far? Do I _want _him to go that far?

"Let me tell you somethin', you delicious scrawny spit fuck," he growls, getting face to face with me. "If you can remember this in the mornin', then we'll seal the deal some other time, all right?"

I nod although I want him to just get on with it.

Tallahassee sits up and lets me recover myself. I try my hardest to cover the erection in my pants but it's no use, he's spotted it. He shrugs and mutters, "Go ahead. Go to the bathroom."

I rush my way up the stairs.

IIIII

The rest of the night goes in a blur. After I had taken care of myself, I headed down and kept watch with Tallahassee. Nothing was awkward about it, we just didn't feel like talking. If we did we would probably end up jumping on eachother again (me on bottom, of course). Sooner rather than later the girls show up and are ready for their shift. Tallahassee still refuses to share a bed with me so I'm forced to sleep on the floor. I'm not sleeping in the guest room because we found one of the infected in there, and it had been on the bed, and no way am I going to risk becoming one of those monsters.

The next four hours I sleep like a baby. I have a pillow, a blanket, and the floor. That's all I need to rest.

We're both woken up by Little Rock knocking on the door saying, "Wichita found some good eggs. We're having scrambled eggs for breakfast if you want to join us!"

I look at my watch and see that it's eight in the morning. I yawn widely, and look over at Tallahassee, who is putting on his cowboy hat. My head is pounding and I'm hoping that I can find some Tylenol or Excedrin for my pulsing headache. Damn hangovers. But despite all of this pain . . .

I smirk.

"I remember last night."

He smirks back.

"I was hopin' you would, Sally, I was hopin' you would."

IIIII

IF ONLY I WERE A SLINKY SAYS:

Not my best work, I wrote this only writers block hoping to get my groove back, but I hope you enjoyed it enough to review. I know people are reading this, so review you fuckers--I mean, you wonderful human beings. :D


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